Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  The crowd howled as Hagelund stumbled around, leaking blood from every gap in his armor. Soren waved and smiled and blew a kiss to the camera drone above her, right before she drove the spear under his armpit and straight through his heart. Mark was astonished at what the gymnast … the gymnast, had done in that ridiculous armor with a smile on her face.

  I knew there was something not right about her, Mark thought as he looked at Carlo clapping wildly, his eyes glazed over as she bowed to each section of the stadium. The sand was littered with hundreds of bouquets of yellow roses.

  Mark watched the next day’s fight with particular interest. Though he wasn’t friendly with either combatant, he felt some affinity for both of them, and would be sad to see blood spilled, however it went.

  Shin Tagami had attacked Easton in the woods in defense of the maid. Manny had attacked Wyatt Axton outside the manor because well … he was crazy, but Mark appreciated the effort.

  When Tagami took the sand, something Arthur had said a long while back clicked. The crowd gasped as he walked out with no armor, just a plain gray robe with a minimalist stitching of a white crane on the back. He was armed only with his long staff, though the wooden version had been replaced by a metal one. The crowd whispered about the man who would dare enter the arena wearing no armor, with less protection than even Soren Vanderhaven, surprisingly.

  Mark thought he understood. It was probably how he was most comfortable. Wherever he’d learned his skills in decades past, he surely wasn’t doing it with dozens of pounds of plating. And armor didn’t need to block anything if you never got hit. Yet, it did seem a little like suicide in this context.

  Manny’s armor was patchwork, seemingly built by a madman. Misshapen plates locked together in odd formations, though knowing Arthur’s design philosophies, it was probably more functional than it looked. On a random plate near his abdomen, Mark saw a scratched picture of a dog. The “hound” was meant to be Manny’s symbol, though the representation on his armor looked like it had been doodled by a child or a caveman. The man was already swinging his dual berserker’s axes at the air, and was practically foaming at the mouth.

  Poor guy, Mark thought, remembering what Brooke had told him about the war-ravaged veteran. If the nerve damage was as extensive as she thought, at least he wouldn’t be able to feel the pain of what was about to come next.

  But regardless of what he thought about the two men, the fight was incredibly important because whoever lived would face Mark in the next round. This was his corner of the bracket, and he watched the entire fight on the edge of his seat.

  The crowd didn’t seem to know who to support. With his mangled face and mental illness, Manny had few fans in the audience. There were more rooting for Tagami, and he seemed to win a majority of supporters through his lack of armor and use of a non-bladed weapon, which seemed especially brave. But the man hadn’t spoken a word on or off camera since even before he qualified, so he was as much of an enigma to the Crucible audience as he was to Mark.

  After a low bow from Tagami and a violent twitching spasm from Manny, the bout was underway.

  Tagami’s fighting style was beautiful, in a way. While Manny lashed out like a wild animal in every direction, Tagami looped around him and away from the singing blades of the axes. Soon there were a few slices through his robes, but no blood. When he struck, his staff rattled Manny’s armor and the man clutched his helmeted head with each fresh reverberation, but with just the staff, Mark didn’t understand how Tagami would land a killing blow.

  Eventually, Mark understood Tagami’s strategy. He was going for the head, and only the head. Though the staff had no blade to open any arteries, it rang Manny’s skull over and over like a bell. By the fifth blow, the helmet was dented, but the fifteenth, it was practically collapsing in on itself. Manny couldn’t feel pain, but those violent vibrations and contusions clearly aggravated him all the same. He roared and finally ripped his helmet off, cutting his face as the bent metal dragged over it. Free of the oppressive, battered helmet, he lunged forward wildly and one swing finally nicked Tagami’s side and the gray robes started absorbing crimson. But with Manny’s head now exposed, Tagami had his opening.

  Another wild lunge missed, and Tagami spun around backward, the staff a blur that cracked against the back of Manny’s neck, just under his skull. Mark heard the bones crunch from the armor mics, and watched Manny’s eyes widen as he sank to his knees, his body jerking like a broken toy. The axes dropped harmlessly to the sand.

  He kneeled there, heaving, staring at Tagami. The old man planted his staff upright in the dirt and walked over to Manny. He too dropped to his knees and whispered something out of mic earshot to the crippled man. He bowed to his opponent, and Manny looked at him blank-faced. His eyes rolled back into his head and he toppled toward Tagami, who caught him in his armor, and lay his body down on gently on the sand.

  Mark sighed. This was yet another man he didn’t want to kill.

  AND THEN, A MAN fought whom he didn’t want to see die.

  It was time for Moses to face Asher Mendez. Nolan had invited Mark and Ethan to watch in Moses’s private booth, and the man looked distraught throughout the entire opening ceremony.

  “It’s what he wants,” Nolan whispered over and over, as if trying to convince himself, but Mark was disappointed that Moses hadn’t taken his advice and fled. He still hadn’t spoken to Mark since their falling out, but Nolan assured him it was just nerves.

  “He’ll be okay after today,” Nolan said.

  No he won’t, Mark thought. Either way.

  Ethan stuck to the hard facts of it all. Moses’s sizes and the reach of his maul gave him an advantage over Mendez, who had fully embraced his “tiger” persona with gaudy striped armor and double-bladed claw weapons that supposedly utilized some remnant of his boxing skills. Tactically, Mark agreed Moses may have a leg up, but it was hard to divorce that kind of logic from the fear of losing a friend. If Ethan felt the same way, he was hiding it well. He had spoken little of his own fight against Jordan, only to say he was glad it was over with. His next match had already been decided on day two, and he would face Rakesh Blackwood in the second round. Mark wished he could trade, and Ethan would have to be the one to execute the old man. Mark now had little faith he’d be able to stop the juggernaut of the Crucible in time to avoid more death. Brooke’s absence was growing worrisome, matched only by Aria’s, who had also been invited to the box but was still missing. Mark was now sure that she was the one who had been attacked and was lying injured somewhere. But Crayton’s people always brushed Mark off when he tried to schedule a meeting with the man to ask him directly. The alternative was that she’d left the tournament entirely, and Mark secretly hoped that he’d see a breaking news story that Aria had been spotted back in New York, performing on stage. No such bulletin had appeared.

  Moses had gone full barbarian with his ensemble. He was wearing half a bearskin (fake, Nolan assured Mark) that had very real-looking fur and claws over his metal gauntlets and the bear’s head and upper jaw wrapped around his helmet. His outfit left some skin on his broad chest and muscled quads exposed, but if it was good enough for the ancient Gauls, it was good enough for him, Nolan said. Though he was one of the largest fighters, not becoming a literal tank on legs gave him a bit of extra mobility, which he’d need against the worryingly quick Mendez.

  The fear was well-founded. After the chime sounded, Moses was cut three times over within the first two minutes. Nolan went pale white as Moses held his gauntlet to his wounds and he shifted his grip on the maul. Mendez had gored his abdomen, leg, and chest with quick claw strikes, but there was no way of knowing how deep the cuts were. Mark could only judge by his movement, and he was optimistic, as Moses was still reacting as quickly as he’d ever seen him during training, despite the injuries.

  When the maul finally connected to Mendez’s tiger stripes, the result was nearly apocalyptic. The boxer flew a half-dozen feet through the air before
crashing to the ground. He didn’t lose his grip on his razor claws, which were fully integrated into his armor, but it had clearly shaken him. Moses almost ended it right there with a crushing follow-up, but Mendez rolled out of the way just in time.

  Moses pressed his luck too far. When he went in for another haymaker, Mendez was ready and slid under the swing, raking his claws against Moses’s gauntlet as it passed by.

  Mark heard Nolan cry out as two of Moses’s fingers dropped to the sand, and crowd practically lost their minds.

  Fortunately, Moses kept his grip on the maul, and all the injury did was enrage him. When Mendez leaped to press the advantage, Moses rushed to meet him. Mendez’s right claws glanced harmlessly off a chest plate and Moses slammed his head into Mendez’s, knocking him straight to the sand, stunned. He tried to roll again, but Moses’s maul caught his leg, and from the resulting, horrifying sound, it was clear every bone below the knee had instantly turned to gravel. Mendez’s scream echoed through the entire stadium and everyone was on their feet.

  Moses’s chest heaved as Mendez tried, and failed, to limp to a standing position, his left leg little more than jelly inside the warped armor.

  Don’t, Mark thought. Just walk away.

  Moses stood there, contemplating the fate of the beaten man. In any other fight he could have claimed victory, his opponent clearly unable to continue, but not here. Not in the Crucible.

  Save yourself. Walk away.

  Moses tightened his bloody grip, swung the maul up in a high, wide arc, and when it came crashing down, every organ inside Mendez’s armored chest became little more than pulp.

  Mark acted like he was supposed to. He high-fived Ethan. He hugged Nolan. He smiled, and tried to mask the urge to vomit.

  Out in the sand, Moses didn’t wave to the stands or roar in victory. He stared silently at the mangled corpse, and let 250,000 people celebrate for him.

  Moses’s injuries turned out to be more severe than anticipated, so Dr. Hasan stitched him up and pumped him full of drexophine. Mark let Nolan have a tearful reunion with his husband, and then went in alongside Ethan to try and talk to him. Their contingent of escort guards followed them. Ethan went on and on about the mechanics of the fight, and how much he’d kicked ass. Moses smiled and nodded and cast Mark sideways glances. As Ethan wrapped up, Mark simply nodded and said, “I just wanted to say congrats, man. Well fought.”

  He held out his hand and Moses shook it stiffly. Mark released his grip, but Moses kept his.

  “Stay a minute?” he asked. Mark looked at Ethan who nodded and left the room.

  “Sorry for being a dick,” Mark said first. “I just …”

  “I get it,” Moses said, waving his bandaged left hand that was missing its last two fingers. Mark was a bit startled to see they were in a jar nearby. “I didn’t before, but I do now.”

  “How are you doing with it?” Mark asked.

  Moses paused and stared at the TV, which was showing the crowd milling out of the stadium as the Muses performed their daily post-show send-off. Mark saw blurry shapes in the background that looked like they were hauling Mendez’s body away.

  “It doesn’t feel like a sport,” Moses said. “Not really. I thought it would make it better because we all knew the risks and weren’t doing this because we had to. We’re not Caesar’s slaves.”

  Aren’t we, though?

  “But it isn’t like that,” he continued. “It’s uglier than I thought. And easier. Just one swing, and he was gone. I’m supposed to feel proud, aren’t I?”

  “It was a good fight,” Mark offered.

  “You know what I mean. You feel it too, or you wouldn’t have told me what you did.”

  “So what now?” Mark said, itching the bandage on his arm.

  “You know it’s too late to walk away,” Moses said. “Especially after today.”

  Mark sighed.

  “You still can. You’re alive. And you’re not going to like what comes next if you stay.”

  “The girl?”

  “The girl.”

  Moses held his palms to his eyes.

  “I’m over the edge now. All I can do is keep falling.”

  Mark knew that feeling better than he’d like to admit.

  A TV blared behind them, showing slow-motion tracking shots of the most brutal blows of the match.

  The headline at the bottom read MORTON TO MEET VANDERHAVEN IN QUARTERFINALS.

  30

  MISSIONARIES? WHAT THE HELL do you mean, missionaries?”

  Mark stared incredulously at Brooke’s face through his S-lens. She’d finally gotten back in touch after half a week in a crypto-site under Chicago.

  “Joseph and Heidi Olsson. The people in Crayton’s photo. We had to verify the find a dozen times over because the hit was just from a single source. A random archived scan of a bulletin from the Church of Righteous Light in Idaho, circa 1981. Read it.”

  Brooke flung the photo and excerpt up on the screen. In it were the blond man and woman from Crayton’s hidden photo, roughly the same age, but posed somewhere else, in front of a small white church that needed a few coats of fresh paint. He read the text under it.

  “Join us in praying for Joseph and Heidi as they take the light of the Lord to the darkness of China. Your offerings have funded their mission overseas so they may preach repentance to the heathens who would butcher children in the womb. The Church of Righteous Light goes where the Lord wills, and the Chinese people must understand the monstrous sins they commit daily. If they do not turn from their path, the Lord will smite them with fire and brimstone, and we cannot sit idly by as that happens. We are blessed that Joseph and Heidi have answered this call, and that little Joseph Jr. will be allowed to witness the Lord work through his parents at such a young age. Please attend our farewell barbecue for the Olssons this Friday in the Narthex. Bring a dish if you can, and a smile if you can’t.”

  “What in the holy fuck am I reading?” Mark said, eyes racing over the text for the third time.

  “Facial recognition came up with this scan, and after ridiculously extensive analysis, we matched the photo,” Brooke said. “We believe these are Cameron Crayton’s parents, his true parents, who left the country in ’81 to become missionaries in China. The Church of Righteous Light wasn’t your average house of worship. Back then, the FBI had the congregation linked to various abortion clinic fires in the decade after Roe v. Wade. They were fanatics. An unpublicized raid landed a dozen members in jail and the chapel itself burned to the ground ‘unintentionally,’ the report says. That was in 1984.”

  “And the Olssons? China?”

  “With China’s one-child policy and all the abortions that led to, it was number one on their hit list. They’d been planning to go since the policy was enacted in ’78, but it took them a while to save up to fund this mission. They could only send one family, and the Olssons were the most devoted of the most devoted.”

  “They never came back,” Mark said.

  Brooke shook her head.

  “Their passports show the family going in, but not out. I can’t imagine a bunch of white people screaming about the evils of abortion went over very well with the locals or the government. They were never reported missing because the church didn’t want the FBI looking at them even closer. Even when they lost contact, they just told everyone the Olssons were still there, doing the Lord’s work. In all likelihood they were dead or in prison.”

  “So Joseph Olsson Jr. is Cameron Crayton?” Mark said, rubbing his chin. “He survived?”

  “That’s the running theory, but it’s unconfirmed. If those dots really are all connected, he was over there young, very young, and possibly an orphan.”

  This was huge. Mark’s mind raced.

  “What’s it going to take to make this official?” he asked.

  “We need Chinese intel. Either data showing the government scooped him up and turned him, or that he came back and had connections with the regime during his business year
s. Timeline makes it look like he was back in the States by seventeen. That’s where things start to look genuine in his file, working odd jobs, then starting businesses, making investments and the like. But that’s about a decade he’s unaccounted for.”

  “Anything else? The box? The teeth? ‘White Devil’?”

  “Nothing on those. But there has to be a connection, however bizarre.”

  “We should take him and … extract the rest from him,” Mark said, gritting his teeth.

  “I ran that up the flagpole; Gideon shot it down. We’d tip our hand before we have proof and there’s no way to know how China would respond. If they want him dead now, for whatever reason, taking him off the board could have … unexpected consequences.”

  Mark shook his head in disgust.

  “People are dying every day we don’t take him down and disrupt this entire freakshow.”

  Brooke nodded. He could see the pain in her eyes.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. But he’s too high profile to take into custody without a better case against him. This operation isn’t even supposed to exist, and if it gets brought to light, everything we find had better well stick.”

  Brooke paused.

  “I know people are dying, but compared to …”

  “Don’t even say Spearfish,” Mark growled. “Yes, the body count is lower, but this is … something else. Something worse, in a way. These are not soldiers. These are delusional people who think they have no other options.”

  Brooke shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten close with them, Mark. You’re losing scale here.”

  “This isn’t about Aria!” Mark snapped.

  “I didn’t say it was just about her. It’s Ethan. It’s Moses. You’re so desperate to save them all you’ll sink the mission and make all this for nothing.”